Out of the Rubble
by shirleypositive72
Summary: A young American witch gets the chance of a professional lifetime - working as an Auror for Harry Potter. She feels confident and prepared, but her first assignment destroys her understanding of all she thought she knew.
1. Breaking the Ice

**A/N: This story is all Laurie Whitlock's fault. She requested it. Blame her. I am comforted by the knowledge that she doesn't own David Tennant, or Harry Potter and his world, any more than I do. Also, all hail Harry Potter Wiki. This is my first HP fic. Please, no flames. Reviews are totally welcome, questions are cool, mean is mean. This is my own personal fictional imagining. I know it's not canon; I don't intend for it to be. I hope you enjoy it anyway!**

I picked through the rubble of Azkaban looking for something, anything, that would explain how it came to crumble. What caused its ruin? Who, if anyone, is still alive in this great smoldering heap of jagged-edged hatred?

"Miss Hafgan."

"Yes, sir."

"Found anything?"

"No, sir. Not yet," I respond dejectedly. One does not wish to seem ineffectual in front of an esteemed war hero, now does one?

"Hafgan, you don't have to produce results within the first twenty minutes of an investigation, you know."

"I know, Mr. Potter. But wouldn't it be convenient if I did?" I sigh heavily as I wipe the dirt from my hands.

"Indeed, it would. We'll have another hour here today. Despite its condition, this old prison is still deflecting magic. The Ministry is sending in the heavy guns tomorrow morning, hoping to break some of the defenses down."

"I think that's a mistake, sir."

I am treated to a raised brow. I am certainly not high-ranking enough to give that opinion. I've only been in the country for two days, for goodness sake.

"And why is that, Miss Hafgan?" My Auror superior is not amused.

"I apologize. I've spoken out of turn. It's not my place."

"No," he says, sounding tired but less offended. "That's why we brought you here. No need to come all the way from America to keep your thoughts to yourself. We need fresh eyes, new opinions. What worries you?"

Pulling my brown wool robes around me for warmth, I sit on the nearest piece of rock that I'm reasonably sure won't pierce my skin. "What worries me is that no one is worried."

"What do you mean?" he asks, concern on his brow as he walks a bit closer.

"Can you guess how many places there might be to hide? How many nooks and crannies we can't even hope to see? I bet the prisoners knew every one."

"The prisoners are all dead."

"Are they?"

"Hafgan -"

"We don't even know what caused this, much less what the true effect has been. How can we know they're all dead?"

"And no one's looking. Is that it," a new voice asks.

"Mr. Weasley. Well, yes, sir, that is my primary worry."

"Listen to her. All proper."

"Ron, we _are_ the superiors here. She's supposed to be all proper." Mr. Potter looks to me, smiles ruefully, and says of his deputy, "Seven years we've been in charge, and he still can't believe it." I can't help my laugh.

"I know that. I just meant, you know, American and all."

And there it is. American. I'm proud of who I am. I'm proud of the small, secretive Wizarding community I come from. I'm proud of how far I've already come within the small but important Criminal Wizarding Agency. It's no Ministry office, but still, we do a necessary job. But here, _American_is the identifying factor. I hope the Aurors, at least, get over it soon.

"On that bit of stupid, let's take the next while to survey this area before we leave," orders the Head of the Auror Office. Youngest ever. War hero.

"Yes, sir."

The additional hour yields very much in the way of dirt and scrapes, but very little in the way of information. That is, at least, until now, when I'm giving up for the day. I swear I see something. I don't know what, but I think it moved. I can't . . . quite . . . reach . . .

"Hafgan! What the hell are you doing?"

It's only now that I realize I'm leaning over the edge of the sheer drop created when the rebuilt prison fell apart again, arm outstretched. Grasping for something that probably was never even there. I throw myself backward with all my strength and fall away from a certainly fatal drop.

"What the bloody hell are you after?" Mr. Weasley is not pleased, but he does help me off the ground where I landed on my ass.

"I saw, or I thought I saw, it was, I don't know. I can't explain." All this stammering must be terribly impressive. Damn it. This is not how I meant to make my name within the Auror Office.

"It's the Charms. It has to be. Enough for the day. Pack it in, let's go."

"Mr. Potter, I still think -"

"We'll talk about it later. I want to get off this rock."

As we climb down to the waiting boat, since we can't Disapparate from Azkaban, I see it again.

But I don't.

Not really.

I hate this place.

I love the inn at which we're staying just on the shore of the North Sea, though. Creaky and old and dark but so wonderfully warm and cosy. Butterbeer and Firewhiskey flow freely at The Wynter Nymph Inn. Thank goodness.

We're all staying here, including the wives of my superiors. I'm sitting at a table getting lit up with the four most famous faces of the War. These people saved my world, and they're getting tipsy and tired right here in front of me. It's a credit to them all that I don't feel more nervous than I do.

"So where exactly are you from, Miss Hafgan?" Hermione Granger-Weasley just asked me where I'm from. Hermione. Who knew I could still fangirl at the age of twenty-two?

"I'm from Georgia, a beautiful city called Savannah, Mrs. Weasley," I answer politely, then down another shot. Maybe I am a bit more nervous than I'd like to be.

"Oh, please, I'm Hermione. And you?"

"Oh! Oh, I'm Anwen." I'm so embarrassed. They didn't even know my name.

"_Anwen_? Your name is Anwen Hafgan?" I just seem to be a constant source of confusion to Ron Weasley.

"Yes. My name is Anwen. Why?"

"Are you sure you're an American? I've never heard a name so Welsh. Not even in Wales! Did you know she's called _Anwen_?" he asks his brother-in-law, who simply nods.

"Ron, you've had too much to drink. Shut up." I have at this moment decided that I really like Ginny Potter. "How did you get that name, Anwen? It _is _unusual outside of Wales."

"My grandfather was of Welsh descent. It's a family name, my great-grandmother. The first Anwen was actually the last witch in the Hafgan family line. Before me, anyway. It'd been three generations in my mother's family, too. I'd say I was Muggle-born except that the old Wizarding families in the States keep up with some of the traditions even when the magic has died out. There are so few of us left," I add quietly. It is such a huge source of sadness in our community.

"Why is that?" That Potter curiosity has been sparked, and his green eyes widen with interest.

"Well, -"

"Harry," he insists. "We aren't at work. We're all friends here. Right, Ron?'

"Right," Ron agrees, though a little wobbly.

"Harry," I repeat. "Anyway, we really don't know. There are theories as to why there aren't that many of us. The Trials scared so many away three hundred years ago. Mass exodus back to Europe. Even as we got better at hiding, it never really stopped. Those with magic just leave. Another possibility is the Native Americans. Their magic is older than ours. Maybe it stunts the manifestation of our abilities, as a defensive measure. No matter the cause, the effect is the same. Our population is about a quarter of that in Great Britain."

"And yet, you have schools and a governmental presence. It must be difficult to keep it going," Hermione observes.

"It can be. It's one of the reasons I was hired into the CWA right out of Salem."

"Salem?" Ginny asks.

"My school. The Salem Witches' Institute. All girls. Absolutely freaking horrible and completely amazing all at once."

"I'm embarrassed I didn't know that," Ginny blushes.

Ron caught the _all girls_part. "Hey, no wizards in the US?"

'Yes, Ron there are," I chuckle. "They go to Corey-Burroughs Academy. Before the Trials, everyone was educated together. Afterward, they all tried just a little harder to go undetected. Smaller schools meant smaller gatherings. Boys and girls have been separated since then."

"Both schools are in Massachusetts?"

"Yes. Right in Salem. Poetic, don't you think?"

"Quite," Harry agrees.

"We've had our struggles, too. We're so spread out. It helps for our schools to be close."

Ginny leans across the table to ask, "So, what brings you here? I heard that American witches come over here to find husbands since there are so few to choose from at home."

At the scolding chorus that erupts, my shock turns to amusement. I start to laugh and they all join. Even Ginny, who looks like she wishes the floor would open and swallow her whole. Firewhiskey. Ron isn't the only one who's had one too many.

When the laughter calms and the other patrons have given up on trying to figure us out, I tell her, "No, not husband hunting. Just took the chance to travel when it was offered."

"And maybe get in the door with the Aurors?" Harry questions.

"Maybe," I hedge. He grins knowingly. "Anyway, this case has a lot of Wizarding governments interested, including my own. My office sent me to take a look, help if I can."

"And can you?" Hermione asks, suddenly sounding very much like the Ministry official she is.

"I don't know."

**A/N: Just some background on our American witch. The case is explained a bit more in the next chapter. I also write for Supernatural and Twilight. Check my profile for more! Please review. I'm a sucker for reviews. Thanks for reading!**


	2. A Wand's Tale

**A/N: Don't own Harry Potter. I'm making this up as I go along...**

In the years since the end of the Second Wizarding War in '98, the number of Death Eater faithful has dropped significantly. For the most part, obviously, because the head of the snake had been cut off both figuratively and literally. No Dark Lord to order the fight, to lead, to corrupt. However, Voldemort's final defeat at the hands of my new boss did not automatically make every bad wizard good, nor did it make every good wizard safe. Not all of the corrupted need someone to corrupt them. Some are just bad. Like every single other society, ours has its share of criminals.

Ours are just harder to imprison.

Azkaban was restored after the expulsion of the Dementors, slowly as to ensure precision, into something as secure as ever before. Different than before, as well. More humane, less horrifying, but still warded and charmed even into its smallest corners. There are still those so Dark that they must never be allowed to escape. Not all of the Death Eaters were reformed; not all of them died. Some only wished they had.

The wizarding world was shocked to learn that many who had been in the prison before the Dementors were made to leave were unlawfully Kissed and presumed dead. When the Ministry sent in a team to plan the rebuilding, it was discovered that that assumption was incorrect. Not dead, many of them, but so very damaged. Recovery for these poor, if not innocent, souls was not expected. For most, all these years later, consciousness is no closer than it was then. But others, others have shown a glimmer.

"And those are the ones that concern me most," I conclude my little tirade.

"You think this was an escape attempt?" Hermione asks, our drinks all now untouched on the table.

"No. I don't think so. I don't think we should toss the idea aside, either, though. Everything should be considered," I reply, as truthfully as I can.

"There's only been one _real _escape," Ron informs me, not taking my worry seriously at all.

"Yes, Sirius," Hermione confirms. "And the two mass breakouts during the War."

"Right. Bellatrix," Ginny sneers, the name like poison.

"That's not true, though," I say, knowing I'm right but hating to contradict her.

"What?" Ron hates me contradicting, too.

"You're forgetting Barty Crouch, Jr. Most people do."

"I don't," Harry says under his breath as Ginny grabs his hand.

"His was really the first escape. He was young, and angry, and dying. His parents helped him, but it was an escape nonetheless."

"Young?" Harry asks. "How young?"

"He was twenty in 1982 when he broke out. He's back there now, an invalid at fifty-two, broken by a Dementor's Kiss. Or, he _was_ there, before the whole damn thing exploded four days ago," I tell them all, sounding how I imagine Hermione sounded in their Hogwarts days. Sitting here, I can almost forget that I learned about my dinner companions in my history lessons. "Now, of course, we have to find out where all of them are. If I could just figure out where to look," I add quietly.

"You know so much about him," Ginny wonders aloud.

"It's my job. It's why I was sent here. I'm not terrible at spells, but research is my strength. Or so my bosses at home seem to think."

Hermione beamed, Ron rolled his eyes. Ginny laughed at them both. Harry said, "Yes, it is your job, and you're doing well. Keep your eye on the details, the small strokes. I'll take care of the big picture. And don't be afraid to speak up. You did just what you were supposed to today."

"Thank you, sir," I say smartly. It feels like a Mr. Potter statement, rather than a Harry one.

"But research isn't your only strength, I'm guessing, Hafgan. They wouldn't have sent you here just to do research," Ron insists. "We've got my Hermione for that."

"I'm a good agent, Mr. Weasley. The CWA trusts me. I hope the Auror Office will, too." He nods, conceding the point.

"I say tomorrow we start looking for a cause." At my quickly concerned look, he adds, "And we will set more than one team into the rubble. Surely there will be something to find. Dead or alive, they couldn't have simply vanished. We'll make an account of the missing, if there are any. That set you at ease, Anwen?"

I nod, recognizing when I've had my say. We all finish our drinks and head up to bed, promises of shopping and eventually getting me acquainted with London from Hermione and Ginny. A whirlwind day, with more to come.

My room, the bed, the canopy hangings, the paintings, everything just driving home the point that we only pretend to have old things in America. We think we have history. Even as part of a community that holds onto more of the old ways than the rest of the national society, I have never been surrounded by so much historical reality. Ancient stuff lying next to antique on top of just plain old. And the dust, my goodness. Don't any of these people have asthma? I change into my nightgown, crawl beneath a hundred year old down comforter, and lay down my buzzing head. Tomorrow is the day to impress them all. Tomorrow I begin showing them that I can make a difference here. Because it's important. Because it's my job. Because I want to stay.

The problem with the whole impressing them plan is that I still have no idea what happened. Next morning, back at the rubble that was once the most secure wizard prison in the world, and I have not one damn clue what caused it to collapse on itself with a bang. Dark Magic? Hurricane? Stone-eating termites? Nargles? There are traces of spent magic, echoes of spells, but it's impossible to tell whether they are from the explosion or from the guards, from the catastrophe or from security. Whatever happened here, it is well hidden.

I just feel like its hidden in plain sight.

"Hafgan."

"Sir," I respond instantly, from years of habit in service. Ron Weasley, however, seems surprised every time.

"Take a short break, yeah? You've been spinning in circles with your wand out for hours."

"It's not all I've done. I dug in the ash for a little while, too."

"You're a bit mental, you know that?" He laughs while he says it, and that makes me happier than I care to admit. I was really afraid he didn't like me at all. I laugh with him.

"I feel like the answer is right here, and I just can't see it. It's frustrating."

"You do keep coming right to this spot. You're not going to try to go over the edge again, are you?"

"Ah, no. Once was enough," I say ruefully.

Looking over this jagged, wet, windswept pile of stone where I stand, I can't quite put my finger on why I'm here again. I started the morning on the other side of the island, up one flight of almost-intact stairs, being drawn by something else. Before I knew it, I was back on _this_ spot, turning in circles with my wand out. The cliffed drop to the water, however, hasn't drawn me toward certain death today.

"You alright? You went off there for a moment," Ron asks, looking at me closely with worried eyes. Maybe he doesn't dislike me.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just thinking. To be honest, I don't think I was being led to the edge so I could fall."

"No?" Harry asks. How do they keep sneaking up on me?

"No. This place, it's calling me. I think it's what we're looking for. I think it happened here. Or, at least it started here. This is the spot."

"Are you a seer?" Ron asks, wonder and perhaps suspicion in his voice.

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm an Intuitive," I tell him, as I hold out my wand for closer inspection. "English oak and Unicorn tail."

"Which means what, exactly?"

I sigh, knowing that even in our world, those who are different are not easily accepted. "English oak, meaning intuition and a certain closeness with Nature. Unicorn, meaning the wand itself is very loyal to me. My wand tells my story, I guess."

"So you're talking to the rocks?" Ron is trying to understand. Harry snickers, but I suspect that he's waiting for the answer, too.

"No, it's not like that. It's more of a feeling, a pull. Like a tug on a rope."

"And you're being tugged here, Anwen?" Harry asks, both of the Aurors paying closer attention.

"Yeah. But not only here. This is where the destruction began. But up there," I point into the massive column of debris above us, "there's something alive up there."


	3. Unexpected Voice

"All clear up here, _Agent _Hafgan," the smug wizard calls to me from the other end of this one-walled, half-ceilinged corridor. I called it a hallway a little while ago and they all snickered. Grown men, all of them, and they snickered. Is it because I'm young, or a woman, or American? I don't know. I can't change any of the three. Maybe they just think _Agent _is a funny title. Whatever. For the moment, I'm in charge and they can all suck it. How's that for young American? Not very Agent-like of me, but they aren't really behaving very Auror-like.

"Keep looking. If you're finished with that block, move up one. There's enough left of the staircase to go up one more level on that end," I order. Because I can. It's also what needs to be done, but mostly because I can. I'm getting really tired of the attitudes.

"Yeah, alright," is the mumbled reply.

"They're just giving you a hard time. New face and all," Harry tells me as he exits the cell he was searching.

"I know," I sigh. "I'm used to it. I'm not exactly like the other Agents at home, either. Still a little younger than most, I guess. It'll pass." Optimism, right?

"Some of them are having some difficulty understanding the cell-by-cell search, as well. They don't really understand what's driving this."

"I can't exactly tell them my super-witchy-spidey-sense is tingling, now can I?" I snap. For the briefest of moments I realize I used a Muggle pop culture reference and am glad I did so with someone who was likely to get it. _Then _I realize I just snapped at my boss. Who happens to be the greatest hero of the last few centuries. Shit. "I'm sorry. It's, it can be . . . embarrassing. Being this different, it makes people suspicious, even when there is nothing to be suspicious _of_. I'm not a freak. Other people can do what I do, you know. Sort of."

"No, I get it. Parselmouth, remember?" he says sympathetically, pointing at himself.

"I do. And I'm sorry. It's no excuse to-"

"No, it isn't. Don't make a habit of it, yeah?"

"Yes, sir. But the feeling that draws me, it's agitated. I guess it's rubbing off on me."

"You feel the mood?"

"Not usually. Hardly ever, in fact. Most of the time, I just feel the disturbance of the natural world surrounding whatever it is I'm seeking. But this is so close, and so . . . I don't know. I think he's hurt. Hurt and scared. And it's starting to affect me."

"He?" His face is taking on that concerned-fathery vibe. I'm both touched and annoyed.

"Yeah," I sigh again. "It's just so hard to explain. The impression is gaining clarity, becoming more defined. I'm sure it's a man."

"Any man in here would be a guard or prisoner. All the guards are accounted for, Anwen."

"I know."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know yet. Someone who's been here a while, though. A long time. There is so much despair."

"There aren't that many possibilities left. We've searched so many cells already. Only two levels after this. And one of those we can't get to," he mumbles, frustrated.

"Sir? Who _is_ left unaccounted for?" He seems unsettled, worried. The names left on his list cannot be good ones.

"No one I ever want to meet again," he says tightly, then moves on to the next cell in the row, robes opening wide at his hasty and determined march.

I walk slowly to the last cell designated to my search area for this level. I can't help thinking as I do that this must be so hard for both Harry and Ron. The men and women held in these last, uppermost cells are wizards they fought as children. I've been so focused on the call to my senses that I haven't even considered the toll being taken on the two heros I work for.

The last cell Ron searched before he took a break from this dark, bleak, cold place was that of Prisoner Dolohov. He killed not only Remus Lupin, but Molly Weasley's brothers. Ron stoically walked through the hole in the rock that served as his uncles' murderer's room. Dolohov had until that point been one of the unaccounted for. No more. Another body had been found; Antonin Dolohov is dead. Ron turned from it and walked away, silent. We all let him go.

Harry faces personal demons with every cell up here. Prisoner Umbridge's cell was empty of all but one pink shoe. It appears she was thrown through a hole in the wall of her cell when the blast occurred. I don't think Harry will believe it until he sees for himself. He didn't find any joy at this old enemy's apparent death. He didn't mourn, either. He left that corner of the rock behind him, rubbing his hand as he walked away.

It isn't my intention to bring back such horrible memories to these two men. To any of the Aurors here with me. The history I've only read about, heard about from my parents - it was their lives. I hate the pain this is all causing, but it has to be done. He's here, whoever he is, and close. So close.

Reaching the doorway of the cell, I see it is in utter shambles. Door blown off to land across the corridor, one outer wall half crumbled to the floor, the ceiling reduced to dust. It''s wet and freezing from the sea and the rain. But that's not what makes it uncomfortable for me. The feeling has intensified in my gut, the draw is pulling me forward. I open my mouth to call to Harry but something moves in the piled stone. There's a hand, an arm, covered in filth but moving. Instinctively, I pull my wand, knowing it's useless. No magic here.

I find my voice.

"Harry!" No time for formalities. He comes running, his feet loud on the stone floor.

"What? What is it?"

"Here. He's here," I whisper, though I'm not sure why. "Whose cell is this?"

"Oh, God," he says, staring intently at the parchment in his hand. He grabs at the folds of my robes and pulls me away.

"Who is it?" I ask again, a bit unnerved by the pallor of his face.

"Crouch. It's Barty Crouch, Jr."

"Oh. Oh, no."

"He's dangerous, he's a murderer, he's a liar, he's crazy. Just completely insane, Anwen. Can you hear him? Is he in your head?"

"No, I told you. It's not exactly like that."

"Then how is it. Explain, now."

"Mr. Potter. Harry. I can't explain. But no, no, he isn't in my head. I just knew where to find him. The feelings, just a guide," I try to calm him. Obviously, this prisoner was not what he was prepared for. This one, this man, holds a specific place of hatred in his heart.

"I'm sorry, Anwen. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to grabbed you, or yell. I, it just. I was caught off guard by the name."

"It's alright, really. But now we have to deal with this. We have to get him out of there."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose we do,' he admits.

"And we need to be sure it's him," I say.

"You're right. Any of them could have crawled in here after the initial blast."

"Who else was up here?" I intentionally do not know this. I didn't want to be influenced in the search. I wish now I had been better prepared.

"Nott, Yaxley,Travers, Rookwood, Macnair, Jugson, Crabbe. Between this level and the one above, it's a Who's Who of the last War." He says this trying to regain control, maybe attempting a smile. It's a grimace.

"Let's call in the team. They can clear the rubble, extract the prisoner. St. Mungo's, do you think? We can go there as an advance."

He stares at me from behind those famous round glasses, looks at me through those eyes that have seen more than I can imagine. I can see the moment he gets it under control, beats back the old fears and older memories.

"Yes, very good plan, Agent Hafgan. Let's get Ron and get the hell out of here."

I watch Harry walk away for a moment, giving him a head start, a little room to think. As I take my first step to head back down to the boats, I hear a voice coming from the cell. So soft, almost not there at all.

"Help me."

I don't know why, I don't understand the reason I reply like I do. Maybe it's just the total misery rolling off of him in waves. Maybe it's the pain, or the loneliness. I have no clue why I tell him, "I will."

**A/N: Please leave a review! Thanks for reading.**


	4. Marsupial

I sit under an ancient oak, on a small bench that seems to have been here for just as long as the tree. And wait. Wait for Harry to come get me when I'm needed. Wait for Prisoner Crouch to arrive. Wait for an idea of just how the hell I'm going to question a wasted, twisted, tormented creature such as Barty Crouch. As yet, I've no idea. And so I wait to tell my boss that I can't help at all on the only case to which I'm assigned if I can't come up with something within the next few minutes. But that isn't the only thing on my mind. The Death Eater's wasn't the only call I heard in that destroyed prison.

As though the tree senses in its very roots that I sit here seeking peace, it sends some my way. The air is slowly filled with dancing, dipping, swirling leaves, crackling in the space around me with the sounds of autumn. In seemingly practiced choreography, they move in circles around me, butterflies borne from the earth just for me. Nature comforts me, as it always does when I need it most. It's one of the perks of my odd connection; Nature is connected to me, too. Things like this don't actually happen very often, however. I watch it with wonder.

"You're very good at wandless magic," Harry says as he approaches. Sneaked up on me again. I'm going to buy him a bell.

"It's not me, " I inform him. The slowly spinning swarm broadens to encompass him while I speak. He looks delighted.

"Not you?"

"No, it's the tree."

"You say that so easily."

"Fact of my life. I stopped questioning a long time ago."

"As lovely as this is, Anwen, we have work to do."

"He's arrived?" The leaves float to the ground. I'm sad to see it.

"He's in a room. They're just finishing up the security Charms. Can't have him getting out."

"No, no we can't."

"I'm giving you first crack at him. You're the only one with any objectivity at all. What are you going to do?"

"Talk to him, see if I can connect with the part of his mind that seems . . . present."

"What do you mean _present_, Anwen?" His agitation shows clearly, though he's trying to maintain a professional detachment. That will be a tall order for many of the Aurors and officials on this case. Barty Crouch's appearance has awakened more than one wizard's fear and hatred and worry. "Present in what way?"

"Something in him was calling for help, loud enough from within him that the rubble called to _me_. And, and there's something else. Something happened."

"Yes?" I can tell from the look on Harry's face, and the tone of his voice, that he's already figured out he's not going to like whatever I say. He's right.

"He spoke to me."

"_What_?!"

'Just after you'd gone downstairs, only a moment before I followed you."

"What did he say?" He asks me this through clenched teeth. I don't blame him.

"He said 'Help me,' Sir, that's all."

"And you are just now telling me this because?"

"I wanted to tell you privately, afraid of a panic or a mob, afraid to frighten and shock everyone-"

"Slow down," he snaps.

"I'm sorry. I should have found a way to tell you. However, I thought it best to tell you when others could not hear. I'm not entirely sure who's on the 'Need to Know' list. Things have been hectic since the prisoner was discovered."

Harry sighs deeply, lifts his glasses and rubs his eyes.

"Fine. Valid points. From here forward, make sure you let me know there is information to be shared."

"Yes, Sir." He does not remind me to call him Harry.

"Anything else?"

"Yes." The look on his face could melt bricks. "Nothing like that. No, I just wanted to talk something over with you."

He walked over to the friendly oak, straightened his robe, and leaned. I'm not the only only one feeling eased by its ancient presence. Most people just don't know they feel it. "What's on your mind?" he asks, much calmer than a moment ago.

"The other thing I felt, the other call. That hasn't yet been explained. I think I have to go back to Azkaban."

"Not alone."

"Of course not. I'll need a team, plus a boat crew."

"No, not only them. I want Ron to go with you, as well."

"Ron? Why?"

"Your leads have proven to provide results. I'd like a senior Auror there in that event. Besides, last time you followed that particular feeling, you nearly walked over a cliff."

"There's that," I admit.

"You can go back, but not yet. Crouch is the priority. Understand?"

"Understood."

"For now, you have a Death Eater to chat with. On your way."

Making my way quickly to what has to be the most closely guarded and tightly secured room in the hospital, I try to tell myself that talking to him will work. That I will somehow just make a connection with a mind that hasn't worked in a very long time. And what if I do? Can he speak? I know he asked for help, but that's almost as instinctual as breathing. And what do I ask him, anyway? _Hey, did you blow up Azakaban and just forget to escape? _It would tie things up nicely if he just said yes. But I doubt that's even close to what happened. There's another mystery waiting for me in Azkaban.

"Shouldn't even be 'ere! Was him that put the Longbottoms in 'ere. If people find out about this-"

"Quiet," I hiss, rushing to the the nurse outside the prisoner's door, the heels of my boot loud in the sterile quiet.

"I'm only sayin' what's true!"

"You're only saying enough to get you arrested. Were you not warned that there would be no public discussion about the man in this room? You should have been," I warn. I'm young, but I have authority, and I know how to carry it.

"I was. We're in the 'ospital."

"Yes, and I heard you from down the hall."

"I do apologize, Miss."

"Agent. Agent Hafgan. Don't let it happen again. I'll be speaking with your supervisor to be sure it doesn't. Now, I'm here to see the patient. Is he awake?"

"No, the _prisoner_ is not conscious at this time, Agent."

"What is your name nurse?"

"Imogen Goodfly," she tells me defiantly. Everyone knows it's never a good thing when a cop asks your name.

"Nurse Goodfly, he is my prisoner, true. But while he is here, he is _your _patient. Are we clear?"

Her eyes widened, as did those of the nurse she'd been complaining to when I first arrived. She tilted her head as if to take my measure, then nodded.

"You're right, Agent. You are right and I know it. I am sorry."

I nod back, no need to belabour the point, then ask, "May I go in?"

"Yes, of course."

I go in exuding much more confidence that I feel. The heavy door closes slowly behind me, and at the the soft thud it makes when it hits the doorframe, I'm prompted to take a deep breath. Time to make this work.

"Mr. Crouch?" I keep my voice even, controlled, indifferent. They teach us how to do that in training. We are, essentially, the police in our world. People are nervous around us anyway. Best to not let them see fear or hatred in us before we've gotten answers. Or any other time, for that matter. It's counterproductive. I will refer to him as Prisoner at all times, except to his face. It aids in keeping a distinct separation. "Mr. Crouch, can you hear me?"

HIs fingers move, but nothing else. No indication of sentience at all. But I know he's in there. I felt him before. I pull up a heavily upholstered, clearly antique wooden chair, so unlike the clinical modernity of the hospitals back home. We are so much more aware of our state of hiding. We live in so much more fear.

I think I understand the broken man in the bed. He's in hiding, too, from a world intent on his eradication. I get it, now. Sitting down at his bedside, I begin to call him out, much more confidently.

"Mr. Crouch, I know you're in there. You're at least slightly aware. Stop playing possum. You talked to me earlier. Do you remember? You asked me to help you."

"And you said you would."

His voice is not quite like I expected. Scratchy from disuse, and much deeper than the few recordings that Rita Skeeter had somehow managed to procure. She broadcasts them on the anniversary of Barty Crouch, Sr's death. I sit upright and further back when I remember that the man under the tattered quilt killed his own father. A killer who is much more aware than he has let on.

"Yes, I did. I made sure you were found, I made sure we got you out."

"I suppose it was you who had me brought here, then?" he asks, still not moving but for his mouth. The snake-like tongue that has been the nightmare of children for nearly twenty years refusing to make the expected appearance. We all heard the stories. Words and images travel swiftly and stick in the memory when they can move on the page.

"Yes."

"And you expect gratitude?" His voice is still even, but I can hear the unrest beneath it.

"I expect nothing, Mr. Crouch."

"Good. You've done me no favor. They'll want me Cursed here. For the Longbottoms, they'll want me Cursed into madness."

"This is a hospital. They will care for your needs here. There will be no Curse." I understand his fear, though. He's not far off in his assumption.

"But they'll want it. All this time and they will still not believe, I know that much. Never believe me," he rambles. After so long with perhaps only his voice for company, only his own mind in response, he must ramble quite a bit.

"Believe what?" He has always cried innocent. In all but his father's death, anyway. Though he has never denied the fact that he was indeed a follower of Voldemort, a Death Eater of seemingly blind allegiance, Barty Crouch never copped to the casting of the Cruciatus Curse upon the Aurors. None of us believe that. He's as guilty as the rest of the lying, conniving murdering Dark Wizards who nearly took down a civilization. "Believe what, Mr. Crouch."

"Nothing. Never mind. No matter," he mutters as he settles. "Who are you?" he asks, cocking his head in my direction, still not opening his eyes. "Are you Canadian?"

"I'm Agent Hafgan, CWA."

"CW-? You're American! They've sent an American. Are the Aurors, are they . . . where are the Aurors?"

"I'm working with the Auror Office, Mr. Crouch. Don't worry. They're around."

"Not worried. What happened, Agent?"

"Azkaban blew up. Know anything about that?" Might as well ask outright while he's responding. He's moving around a bit now, becoming agitated, fidgety. No telling if or when he'll decide to stop talking.

"No. I only know it was loud. The explosion, falling rock. Men and women shrieking all around me. Didn't take long for the ceiling to cave on top of me. I just lay there. Lay there and waited to finally die. But even that comfort was not allowed to me." He grew quieter as the words flowed, becoming morose at the thought of death being denied him. But sad tales prettily told do not make the stories true.

"Why won't you open your eyes? Are they injured? Are they hurting you?"

"Oh, no. No pain in my eyes. Everywhere else, though."

"Open your eyes, Mr. Crouch," I order, growing tired of what now seems to be a game set to unnerve me.

"I don't want to."

"Come on. Why not?" Frustrating, this one simple thing.

"Do you know I've been in and out of that prison for most of my life? Or hidden away where no one can see. Do you know how little beauty there is in a life like that?"

"Mr. Crouch."

"I don't want to open my eyes, because your voice is beautiful, musical. I want so very much for you to be a pretty as your voice."

"And you're afraid I won't be?" I ask with mock offence and impatience.

"No. No, I'm afraid you will be."

Exasperated, I order, "Open your eyes."

And he does. Deep brown, wide, sad, old. But then a light, like an awakening.

"You are. You are very beautiful."

"Enough of that. I have more questions," I snap at him. I suddenly feel very self conscious.

"I have a question, Agent Hafgan."

"Yes?"

"What is 'playing possum'?"

**Please review. Thanks for reading.**


	5. Bad Assumption

**CHAPTER FIVE**

"Frustrating man."

"Anwen?'

"Frustrating, frustrating man."

"Crouch? Or me?" Harry asks with forced humor.

"Prisoner Crouch. I have no idea how long he's been conscious. Long enough to form a coherent plan of obfuscation."

"How is he even awake? The Kiss . . . "

"I don't know. I didn't get that far. Took me forever to get him to even open his eyes. But he is completely aware of his surroundings. He understands the broad strokes of what has happened. I don't know yet if he knows more. I can't get an instant read on him."

"Shall we call in someone else? Someone here, from St. Mungo's?"

"No. No, sir. I'd like to keep trying, Harry, if I can. He's not pleased at all to be in this place. Establishing a level of comfort is important."

"You're comfortable?"

"No, but I think _he_ is. Comfortable enough to be frustrating, anyway."

"Do you need to take a break for the evening? I'm needed back at the Ministry to calm some nerves. That frustrating man in there has really wrinkled some robes with his return. This is just beginning. But I don't want to leave you here alone."

"I'm not alone, Harry," I assure him as I open the heavy door to return to the task at hand. "There's an entire hospital to come to my rescue."

He does not look as though I've put his mind at ease, but he turns and walks away.

"You've returned," says the prisoner as I push the door securely closed.

"I won't be going far, not until I get some answers from you, Mr. Crouch."

"Ask your questions, Agent. I have precious few answers."

"How did you survive the Kiss? How did you retain so much of your mind?"

"I didn't."

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't survive, didn't retain. Wasn't Kissed. Never Kissed."

"Never kissed?"

"Wallflower, I suppose."

"Mr. Crouch, please," I say, trying mightily to restrain my annoyance. And my amusement.

"Suppose I was already so broken," he begins, the melancholy taking over, wiping all hint of humor from his face, his voice. "No happiness, no hope, nothing good for them to steal. They just left me alone, passed me over and went on to the next. They let me lie in my misery and greedily await the end. Just like all of those deranged creatures they created around me. Only I never needed a Dementor's Kiss to wish for death."

It's the longest he's spoken. The most he's had to say. So real, ringing so true, that I am utterly confused as to how I feel. I can only believe him.

"I am so sorry that happened to you."

"Sorry. Sorry? About what? That I escaped a painful and horrifying mind rape by a spector bent on the total erasure of every good thing it encounters? Well, thanks for that."

"No, . I am so sorry for whatever happened to you that made your escape from that fate possible."

"I, I, well, thank you, Agent. Thank you."

"Yes. Well. That is, no one should be without hope. Not even you."

"Not even me. Yes, not even crazy Barty, the killer cruciatus caster! Not. Even. ME!"

He leaps from the bed, faster than his apparent state of neglected health should allow. But seeing him upright, on his feet, up close, in my face, I realize he is an excellent possum. He is no longer covered by rubble or hidden in a bed amid blankets. He is revealed. What I see makes me afraid.

This is not the wasted body of a man who's been lying useless and defeated. This is not a man who has withered and atrophied. This is a man who has waited for this day. He grabs my arm and turns me, my back to his chest, one arm a steel band holding me in place. The other, a restraint around my neck assuring me of my suddenly precarious position. I think I must have been in danger all along.

"You're strong," I accuse.

"Death or freedom, Agent. I knew I would leave Azkaban. I knew I would not endure an eternity in that place. My soul was prepared for death. I held on to my mind and body. I knew death or freedom would someday come to me. Which are you?"


End file.
